


all the ways we can bruise

by aspartaeme



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Unhealthy Relationships, but like...we go through a lot of angst to get there, they're in love and it hurts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:40:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21636025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aspartaeme/pseuds/aspartaeme
Summary: ‘It doesn't feel the way it's supposed to,’ Steve is saying, back turned towards Billy, bruised blue and yellow, and Billy can feel the phantom give of it under his fingertips. ‘You know what I mean.’Billy wants to screamI don't, wants to screamI've never felt like this before, wants to screamcall it what it is, you coward.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 43
Kudos: 271





	all the ways we can bruise

**Author's Note:**

> so! this is dark. enjoy

‘I don't think it's supposed to feel like this.’ 

They're sitting at the edge of Steve's bed, something bloody and bruised and festering growing between them, to match the blood on their knuckles, on their lips. 

They've been doing this for a while, now. 

Exchanging words, and kisses, and fists. All of them aiming to bend, to break, to _hurt_. Pulling each other apart, putting the pieces back together, every time a little more broken, a little more shattered than the last, keeping several four-letter words in the back of their minds reserved for _this_ , none of which apply, all of which do. 

Like two wild animals, untamed and unyielding and _fierce_ , trapped in a town that closes in on them every day, or maybe it's the world that does. 

Billy can't tell the difference anymore. He thinks maybe he never could. 

‘I don't think it's supposed to feel like this,’ Steve says again, tongue digging into the cut on his lips bestowed to him by Billy's canines, in the middle of fighting, or kissing, or tearing each other apart. 

Steve's blood is still in Billy's tongue, swirling around his mouth, mixed with spit and venom, a trophy Billy has to pay back for in the form of angry lines, red and stinging and _open_ , rivers of blood running across his arms. 

Steve's blood is in his mouth and his skin has found a home under Steve's fingernails. 

Blood traded for blood, a bond made in red. They belong to each other, now and forever, parts of them living within the other, and yet. 

‘Fuck does that mean, Harrington?’ he asks, and a voice inside his head that sounds too much like _respect_ , and _responsibility_ , and _pain_ , is reciting lessons learned in blood, that go like - _always fight back,_ and _never back down_ , and _always kick them when they're down_. 

Steve is silent. He walks to the bathroom, comes back with a towel. Starts wiping every trace of Billy on him. 

Billy - feels every swipe viscerally, like a strike from a familiar face, or maybe worse, because Steve is _his_ , because Billy's blood has no business kissing cotton fibers, because relinquishing strips of skin to Steve means less skin for other people to touch, and claim, and bruise. 

Billy swallows down the blood of the boy next to him desperately, _this is my blood_ , digs his fingers in his palms, locking inside them the feel of Steve's skin breaking open under their force, _and this is my body_. 

He’s got a hunger that nothing else can satisfy. 

He wants to _consume_ Steve. 

He wants to _rip him apart_. 

A clean towel is thrown into his lap, and Steve isn't looking at him, and Billy's nails draw blood on his hands, and Billy wants to scream, because it's _not the right kind_. 

Billy craves a different kind of blood in his palms, the kind of blood that can't be found all over a small house on Cherry Lane, that isn't spilled and wasted carelessly on drunk knuckles. 

The kind of blood that only Billy is allowed to summon, that only he knows how to treat the way it's meant to be, with hallowed reverence and numbing awe, bowing humbly before it every time he's able to lure it out of its precious flesh. 

Steve stops cleaning Billy off his skin, throws the towel in the bin, and Billy's blood is not on him anymore, just like that, and everything is _wrong_. 

It's not supposed to go like this. 

Blood is meant to linger. _Billy_ is meant to linger. 

‘It doesn't feel the way it's supposed to,’ Steve is saying, back turned towards Billy, bruised blue and yellow, and Billy can feel the phantom give of it under his fingertips. ‘You know what I mean.’ 

Billy wants to scream _I don't_ , wants to scream _I've never felt like this before_ , wants to scream _call it what it is, you coward_. 

There's a red line of blood trickling down his nose, and Billy wipes at it, and it's the wrong kind, the kind he gives up without consent. It's the third time this week his nose has been forced to gush blood unnaturally, and Steve's been there each time, to make it better, to make it worse. 

He wipes at it, but the blood keeps flowing, stubborn and thick and _red_ , like it's trying to force its way out of Billy's body, seep into Steve's blanket, his carpet, his _life_ , stay there, a pact, an oath. _My blood is yours_. **_I am -_**

He’s silent, unmoving, because the clock is already counting backwards, because his blood will be staining another carpet before the end of the night, because he's swallowed Steve's blood, and that makes for something holy. 

_Here it comes_ , he thinks. 

Steve turns around, faces him, lips clean and unstained and already healing, his body working overdrive to erase every trace of _them_ , and Billy wishes he hadn't, wishes Steve would keep hiding, because he's been letting Steve draw blood for a while now, but this is an overkill. 

‘This has to end,’ Steve grits out, and he's never played dirty before, never left the final blow for after the fight. 

Billy wants to scream _I know_ , wants to scream _who else is gonna give this to you_ , wants to scream _is this how it felt like with Wheeler_ , but Steve isn't looking at him anymore, and the towel is leaving bloody kisses at the bottom of Steve's bin, and everything feels like a banishing spell, _wash yourself off his blood, drive him out of your life_. 

Billy has an appointment with fists, and he's running late. 

‘Get the fuck outta my life, Harrington,’ he says, and it doesn't make sense, but nothing really does, not in Billy's life, except he knows this dance and the next move is his. 

His fingers leave a red trail on the door handle, the staircase, the lock, drenched in blood that should be his to spill and isn't. 

— 

He holds out for three weeks. 

Three weeks of spilling blood that doesn't belong to him, isn't the kind he craves, holds every wrong shade of red, and spilling blood that does, coming home late, reeking and jaded and _uncaring_ , because he tasted Harrington's blood three weeks ago and nothing will ever compare. 

He takes and takes, paints his knuckles, his lips, his _soul_ , with sacred red liquid, always the wrong kind, and then he gives it all back, sacrifices himself each night to someone else's hands. Spends three weeks chasing a rush he already knows where to find, already knows he can't reach. Thinks maybe if he gives enough, forsakes the blood that runs in his veins, lays it all down before the altar of Neil’s rage, maybe the pain will stop. Maybe _everything_ will. 

It never does. 

He does this for three weeks, catching glimpses of skin all-too familiar under his fingers, his teeth, his _need_ , opening wounds that never come close to feeding the aching gap in his chest, then going home to earn his own. He wears his bruises the way he wears his mother's necklace, blood from the father, given once, paid back for life. 

It's _wrong_. 

Billy’s body is tuned to bruises that feel like kisses, and kisses that feel like teeth, like _hate_ , like - 

He lasts three weeks, and he's at a party, a hurricane brewing inside, _toss a coin and see where it hits_ , and Billy already _knows_. 

There are fists waiting for him every day in a house on Cherry Lane, and Billy’s spent his whole life spilling blood, coming closer to something final every time, and Billy knows better than to let his hurricane go to waste. 

Not when he could find his way to the eye of it from the other side of the world. 

He climbs through Harrington's window, hopes he scrapes his knees, or his palms, hopes he leaves his blood ingrained in every surface of a house that holds his undoing. It's Friday, and not even midnight, and Harrington's asleep. 

Billy loathes him for that. Hasn't been able to sleep for _years_ , it seems. Definitely not for three weeks. 

He takes off his clothes, shedding layer by layer until he feels the air Steve breathes on his skin, until the bruises on his back, and his thighs, and his arms, get acquainted with Steve's room for the first time, because it's been three weeks and it's never been this bad, it's been three weeks and Steve hasn't been there the last four times it got _too_ bad. 

He crawls into bed, drags his nails down Steve's arm, a bit more force behind it than necessary, because it's been three weeks, because Steve's skin is white, and unblemished, and _clean_. 

Something is broken, or everything is, and Billy needs Steve to _see_. Needs to break him some more. 

‘What are you doing here, Billy?’ Steve asks, and he hasn't opened his eyes, and he sounds miles less surprised than Billy needs him to, sounds a bit like three weeks worth of waiting. A bit _too much_ for Billy's liking. 

This is a game, and he's not sure he's winning. 

Still, he's in bed with full expanses of white skin, ready to bruise and _there_ for the taking, and Billy's nails have already dug angry lines on Steve's arms, and Steve is just a step closer to being _his_ for the first time in three weeks. 

He shrugs, because they've been exchanging words, and kisses, and fists, but he's only here for two of these, and he's spent his life watching his blood on his father’s knuckles, and Billy understands the concept of time, and how little he seems to have left. Starts biting his answer on Steve's neck instead, forcing red to bloom where his teeth had been a moment ago. 

Steve - lets him. Locks his fingers on Billy's hair, clutches and wrenches and _tugs_ , and pain spreads through Billy's body, and he's never felt more alive. 

He laughs against Steve's neck, something twisted and frenzied and _wrong_ , and that makes Steve force Billy’s head back, detach him from the lifeline he's found in Steve's pulse point. 

‘Jesus, how drunk are you?’ It's laced with resentment, and contempt, and something entirely different, something Billy could easily mistake for concern, or hurt, or tenderness, and it's a low blow, but Billy's come prepared. 

Nothing can ever hurt him after _this has to end_. He's indestructible. 

‘Why are you here, Harrington?’ he says instead, half out of his mind with giddiness, half out of his mind with pain. 

‘You're in my room, Billy,’ Steve throws back, and he sounds every kind of tired Billy feels. ‘You climbed through the window, you asshole. How do you _not_ remember coming here?’ 

‘It's Friday night, pretty boy. There's a party on the other side of town. What are you doing _here_?’ 

‘When was the last time you saw me at a _party_ , Billy?’ 

Billy knows the answer by heart, has the memory burned through his hippocampus, playing on a loop. _King Steve_. 

‘The night you got dumped by the ice princess,’ he says, because Steve isn't the only one able to deliver a dirty blow. 

Steve - doesn't even flinch. He rakes his fingers over Billy's scalp, just this side of painful, smiles something bitter. 

‘Yeah, we. Kinda already went through that part, so. Don’t really see the point.’ 

Billy - doesn't need that. He came here for two things, and words isn't one of them. 

He drags nails down Steve's chest, lets his hand wander lower, lower, until Steve grips his wrist, shakes his head. 

Billy gets the message. He's living on borrowed time. 

Still, he came here for two things, and Steve is holding him against his chest, his chest that's red with lines that weren't there before, that bring Steve a bit closer to being _Billy's_ , so. 

‘I'm staying,’ he growls in the crook of Steve's neck, and he's only half-expecting Steve to throw him out, send him straight to his appointment with fists, with pain, with blood spilled. 

Steve holds him just a tiny bit tighter, sinks his nails in Billy's back, gifting Billy with ten tiny blood moons he'll never be able to see. ‘Okay,’ he says, and then, ‘this is the last time.’ 

Billy - knows. 

He closes his eyes, and closes his teeth on Steve's neck, and his arms around Steve's waist, and falls asleep. 

— 

It's not the last time. 

It never is. Billy knows that, because he knows what it feels like to be addicted to flesh that's bruised, and purple, and marked, and knowing _I'm the cause_ , knowing _I did that_. 

_Your body is a map and I'm drawing the lines._

Harrington - hasn't caught up yet. 

He says _this is the last time_ , and he means it every time. He doesn't touch Billy. 

He doesn't touch Billy, and Billy - 

Nothing hurts like this, he finds. Not Neil’s knuckles, not his mother's necklace around his throat, loose enough to be a reminder, tight enough to be a noose. _You are unloved. You are incapable of being loved._

Steve doesn't touch him, and Billy _aches_. It's an itch he can't scratch, a high he's being coming down from for weeks, or months, or since the moment his world solidified around Steve Harrington. 

It's _wrong_. 

Blood is blood, and meant to be spilled, but only by the right hands, coaxed out of its veins by words that sting like kisses. 

He's going crazy, and his pain is all kinds of wrong, and caused by everyone except the one he's been giving permission to since the beginning, and _Steve doesn't touch him_. 

He's lying in his bed, and his teeth bite around a shirt that holds Steve's blood, and it used to be just a shirt, but now it's sacred. A trophy if Billy ever held one. 

Steve's nose opened for him the last time Billy gulped down words he can never say and let his fist get familiar with Steve's face all over again instead, and Steve had taken the shirt off, thrown it in corner, red and soaked and _holy_ , had bend Billy over his desk, made him scream, made him _feel_ , and then Billy had gotten dressed, had gone out of Steve’s house one shirt richer, and it was just a shirt before, but now it’s a token. _Your blood is mine_. 

He's lying in his bed, face buried in Steve's blood, and it's crusted and dried and _not Steve_ , but Steve doesn't touch him, hasn't touched him since _this is the last time_ , and Billy is so hard it hurts. 

His cock has soaked through his boxers, has turned grey to black, and Billy grabs himself, starts rubbing, rough and fast and sharp, thinks about blood soaking through cotton, about nails that dig trenches into skin. 

It feels so good, because Steve doesn't touch him, and it's been _so long_ , and when he wraps his palm around his cock, drags nails through his slit, forces out a line of translucent liquid that fills the gaps between the cuts of his abs, his back arches off the mattress, and his mouth bites harder down Steve's shirt, lets it soak up his whines. 

His fist is a vice around his cock, drawing pearly drops that run down his thighs, cover the black and blue and yellow they find on their way, and it's the same fist he uses to draw blood, and that - 

It's so good he could cry, and maybe he does, because suddenly his face is wet, and his palm is wet, and his stomach is coated in thick white ropes, and he's pushed over the edge by the thought of Steve, and Steve's blood, and Steve's blood on his hands. He comes and comes, and his whines aren't amorphous sounds anymore, and maybe they never were, because the only word on his lips is _Steve_. 

He wipes himself on Steve's shirt, and blood coalesces with seed and tears, and it tastes like salvation. 

— 

The ache doesn't go away. 

They move in a never-ending cycle, but this time it's stretched too wide, too thin, too frail. Steve is always around, close enough to hurt, close enough to remember, not nearly close enough to touch. 

Billy - _gets_ it. Steve hasn't been nursed on poison, hasn't spent his life swallowing down lessons that always end on fear, and pain, and blood. It's hard to overcome the shame a desire like theirs carries. 

Steve has known other, different kinds of - 

Billy can never give him that. So. He _gets_ it. 

Steve needs time, but time is a luxury Billy’s never had, and the colors on his skin are a constant reminder. The ticking of a clock has never felt so final than the morning after, the _wrong_ kind of it, the one whose light falls upon blue, and black, and yellow that wasn't there the night before. 

Steve doesn't touch him, and everything is worse. 

Billy picks fights with everyone who's willing, and everyone who's not, and comes back every night to fight the one that has never been his choice. _You are flesh of my flesh, and that's my gift to you. This is your inheritance._

He drinks, and he bleeds, and he aches, and Steve passes him in the hallways, and he throws him this _look_ , and it makes Billy want to kiss him, and it makes Billy want to _tear him apart_. 

Steve still doesn't touch him. 

— 

He's at a party. 

Hawkins is a black hole in the heart of America, cut off from the rest of the world, and that creates a special kind of hunger, one that can only be chased with booze, and drugs, and giving in to flesh. 

Billy's desperate, but everyone here is, and that makes for something dangerous, and wild, and always ready to go off. 

He's at a party, and his skin hasn't felt Steve's touch in a month, and his fists are bruised from fights he wins, and his body is bruised from the one fight he never has, and. 

He's on his knees, on the floor of Jessica Bradley’s bedroom, and his fingers are digging into flesh, and his mouth is stretched around the weight of Marty Leary’s cock, and his neck is engulfed in fingers that aim to cause pain, but not the right kind. 

Steve doesn't touch him, and nothing makes sense, and this is the first time since _this is the last time_ that Billy finds some kind of clarity, knees scraped on harsh rug and throat sore, outside and in. 

He's not hard. 

There’s something fundamentally wrong in this, being on his knees worshipping someone that isn't _Steve_ , but Steve doesn't touch him, and Billy needs to wake up and find his body bruised in ways he _chose_. 

Marty keeps making those breathy moans, and Billy hates him, and the world, and. The door flies open, and the room is filled with _Steve_ , and Billy is still on his knees, and his mouth hurts, but the tears in his eyes belong to Steve. They’re frozen in time, a snapshot of the disaster they’ve been heading towards since the beginning, and Billy’s eyes are locked on Steve, the way they have been since October and _rock you like a_ \- 

Billy hasn't seen Steve at a party since - since the ice princess, since the night Billy saw Steve's eyes and his fate was locked, and Steve had said _we already did that part_ , and _I don't see the point_ , and Steve knew Billy would be here, knows Billy's _always_ here, and. 

Steve is still in the doorway, halfway in, halfway out, and Billy thinks there’s a metaphor somewhere in this. They’re enveloped in silence, a blanket falling heavy on them, a world reduced to the three of them, or maybe just the two, until - 

‘Get out.’ Steve’s voice is seething, low and dangerous, and his eyes lead a burning pathway to Billy’s, but the message lands on the one intended to. 

Marty’s out of the room in three seconds, and the door is shut behind him, and Billy hasn’t been in the same room with Steve since _this is the last time_ , and he’s already on his knees, already bowing down, _come, let us adore Him_ , and Steve is _right here_ , made to be adored. He crosses the room in two strides, plants himself right in front of Billy, regal and feral and _glorious_. His fingers grip Billy’s jaw, clenched tight, painfully, _magnificently_ , forcing his head up, up, until the only sight in Billy’s vision is the look on Steve’s face, proud, disdainful, _hurt_. 

Billy never wanted _this_. 

He never wanted this, but his cock is trying to rip its way out of his jeans, harder than ten minutes of sucking dick could ever make him, because his skin holds Steve’s fingers captive, wrapped around his throat, tight and familiar and _right there_ , and Billy _needs_. 

Steve stares at the state of him, his hair a mess by someone else’s fingers, his lips swollen by someone else’s stretch, his pants bulging and straining and _wet_ by Steve’s touch, and Steve breathes out a laugh, bitter and wild and full of contempt, pushes Billy’s head away, walks out of the room, not a word uttered at Billy’s direction. 

Billy’s a second away from spilling come in his jeans, spilling tears on his face. 

— 

He runs out of the party like the devil’s after him, except he’s heading home, so the devil is probably waiting for him there, but the house is dark, and quiet in a way Billy usually associates with _danger_ , and threat, and new colors on his skin, but Billy’s learned to take small mercies the way they come, rare and double-edged, has learned to suppress sounds, and steps, and his whole existence, so. 

He sneaks into his room, and he’s naked within seconds, even with the way his jeans are filthy and soaked and clinging to his body like a second skin he has to shed, and he’s leaning against the door, the one that locks from the outside, _wild animals need to be kept in cages_ , and he has five fingers wrapped around his throat, five fingers wrapped around his cock. 

His hips are moving frantically, desperately, fucking his fist, getting it wet and dripping in seconds, and his hand is tight around his throat, tight enough to block the airway, tight enough to _feel_ , to evoke the phantom weight of Steve’s hand on the same spot, every exhalation hard-earned and triumphant, and he comes all over his fist, his feet, his floor, and his breath holds the shape of Steve’s name. 

— 

Steve finds him the next day at school. 

Billy missed last night’s date with Neil’s fists, and Neil finds it inconvenient to educate Billy during breakfast, so he had to limit himself to one strike, right on top of Billy's left cheek, his mark a red seal on Billy's skin. 

Steve finds him in the hallway, drags him in a supply closet, pushes him against the shelves, and things come crashing around them, and then Steve raises his hand, covers Billy's cheek, hides the red with his palm, reclaiming Billy as his own, and all Billy can think is _finally_. 

Steve's eyes have fire burning in them, and when his mouth finds his home on Billy’s, it tastes like ash, like sacred wine, like deliverance. His bites his way into Billy's mouth, and their lips bleed between them, and Billy licks blood, his or Steve's, or maybe it's just one kind, the one that stems from _them_ , and Billy feels alive for the first time in weeks. 

They breathe the same air, and spill the same blood, and Billy swears he can only find one heartbeat between, pulsing to the beat of _them_. 

Steve pulls back, ghosts his fingertips across the red on Billy's cheek, breathes one word, _tonight_ , against Billy's lips, and Billy doesn't need to be told, he _knows_ how this goes, _knows_ what this means, but it's the first word Steve has spoken to him since _this is the last time_ , and Billy thinks _tonight_ is maybe the most wonderful word in the cosmos. 

Steve steps out, and Billy is alone, Steve's blood on his lips like a gift, _tonight_ hanging above his head like a promise, like death. 

— 

Steve is waiting for him when he pulls at the field, _their_ field, the one they go to kiss, to fuck, to fight, and Billy gets out of the Camaro, can't help himself, says, ‘Am I dreaming?’ 

Steve is on him in a second, fist meeting Billy's cheekbone, the one Neil marked in the morning, and Steve must hurt more than Billy does, ’cause it's such a _stupid_ spot to land someone's fist, all sharp-edged bone and cutting surface, but Steve still soothes it with a kiss, places his mouth on top of Billy's cheek, breathes him in. 

‘Last night - that was foolish, what you did,’ he says, and Billy only hears it because it's spoken against his ear. 

Billy bites at Steve's lips, all chapped and ready to break open for him. ‘It's been too long, Stevie. A boy has needs.’ 

Steve's fist finds his nose this time. Not nearly hard enough to break, but it does its job. Blood drips down Billy's chin, meets Steve's grip against it, helps them both remember why they're here. 

‘You come to _me_ ,’ Steve growls, ‘when you feel the ache. You come to _me_.’ 

‘You said _last time_ , Stevie. You wouldn't look at me.’ 

Steve takes a step back, opens a chasm between them Billy's already aching to efface, looks at Billy, and it's almost like - almost like an apology. _You come to **me**_. 

Harrington is drenched in Billy's blood, and his fists have licked shapes in Billy's face, and Billy has never been harder in his _life_. 

_Come at me_ , he wants to scream. _Come ruin me_. 

Steve presses into Billy’s space, until it stops being _his_ , starts being one separate whole, _theirs_ , and he always says _this is the last time_ , but he’s hard and hot and pressing against Billy's thigh, in a way no girl can make him, princess or not, and Billy can't give Steve softness, and tenderness, and - 

Billy can’t give him _that_ , but. 

That's the one thing Billy can give him. 

He always does. 

Steve's tongue makes a home between Billy's teeth, and his lips press in, and in, and _in_ , like they're trying to melt against Billy's, coalesce into them, become one, _the body and the soul_. He presses their bodies together, pushes and pushes until Billy forgets his alphabet all over again, can only breathe out cries, and moans, and breaths, and all of them sound like _Steve_. 

‘I will _destroy_ you, Hargrove,’ Steve groans, and all Billy can think is _I'm yours._

Steve's body is pressing him into the side of the Camaro, and Billy is grateful for a handful of things in his life, and the support of the all-too familiar metal right now is one of them, because Steve leaves one more bruising kiss on Billy's lips, one more bruise on Billy's neck, and then he - he _kneels_ before him, and it's all wrong, _Steve_ should be adored, and revered, and worshipped, and then Steve's fingers close around the tightness on his jeans, made tighter by the dampness there, start rubbing his cock, rough and tactless and _perfect_ , and Billy's throat doesn't have fingers wrapped around it, but he stops breathing anyway. 

Steve keeps rubbing, and drawing whines, until Billy rasps, _please, Stevie_ , and Steve looks up at him, and Billy was never good at raising walls and keeping Steve out, and Steve hasn't touched him like that in a month, or maybe ever, so his face must read like a kid's book, letters large and wide and colorful, getting the point across, plain and clear. 

‘God, I love how easy you are for me,’ Steve says, and Billy grips Steve's locks, pushes his mouth where he needs it, throws his neck back, _howls_. 

Steve is _good_ , and used to a different kind of - _this_ , and not caught up on their game yet, so he shows mercy. 

He opens Billy's jeans, just enough to get his cock out, flushed red and purple and _glistening_ wet, and when he wraps his mouth around him, tastes the way Billy's leaking with his tongue, takes everything Billy gives him and makes it a part of him, Billy grips his mother's necklace, _Virgin Mary, protect us from sin_ , because this is the closest to heaven he'll ever get. 

Steve's mouth is the only salvation he’ll ever taste, and Billy wouldn't have it any other way. 

He's so close already, and it's been so _long_ , and Steve's nails break skin, mark his thighs in the most delicious way, and he drags his teeth against Billy's cock, and Billy is _gone_. His hands hold Steve in place, on his knees in front of him, and he spills in Steve's mouth, feeds him his seed, the way he offered him his blood, and Steve _takes_ it, takes _all of it_ , swallows, licks his lips, like Billy's come is the only elixir of life he'll ever need. 

_It's too much_ , Billy thinks, _it will never be enough._

Steve stands up, grips Billy's neck, forces his mouth open, feeds him his own taste, makes them share that, too. _My blood is yours. My **everything** is_ \- 

And he's still so _hard_ against Billy's thigh, a line that screams four-letter words like _want_ , and _need_ , and - 

And Billy _has_ to have him, needs Steve to be as close as possible, and then _closer_ , needs Steve to be _inside_ him, needs to be consumed, devoured, broken to pieces. 

‘Steve,’ he starts, muttered against Steve’s mouth, because Steve is right where he needs him, for once, and Billy doesn’t know when the next _last time_ will be, and breathing has never felt as vital as Steve’s lips against him feel, right here, right now, and Billy isn’t about to give that up. 

Steve doesn’t let him finish, keeps his mouth slotted against Billy’s, exhales into it, offers Billy his breath, and it’s the only kind Billy’ll ever need, he thinks. 

‘Turn around. Elbows on the roof,’ he orders, and Billy would do anything Steve asks at any given day, and Steve’s voice is raspy and gravelly, and _Billy did that_ , and. 

His arms meet the metal of his car with so much force it sends a spike of pain, of electricity, running down his veins. 

He hears Steve huffing out a breath, or maybe a laugh, behind him, and Steve said _love how easy you are for me_ , and Billy _never_ is, not for _anyone_ , because no one, _nothing_ has ever been easy for _him_ , but. 

Steve carries the bruises Billy gifts him with. He knows how Billy’s blood tastes. He’s broken through Billy’s front, ripped his chest open, made a home in his ribcage. 

Billy’s heartbeat doesn’t belong to him anymore. His heart beats in the cadence of Steve’s name, _Steve Steve Steve_ , and Billy's never alive, not when he's breathing, not when he's bleeding, but he's alive _here_ , with Steve's body behind him, and Steve's mouth on his ear, and Steve's hands on his hips, forcing bruises on his skin, forging life into his body. 

He feels Steve’s fingers on his nape, gentle, merciless, scorching, pushing his hair to the side, and Steve’s lips take their place, leaving a trail of kisses, of breaths, and then Steve’s hand, the one not burning a mark on Billy’s throat, finds Billy’s fingers, splayed on top of the car, slots their hands together, fills the gaps, pieces of a puzzle coming together, and his grip is tight, strong, just on this side of painful, and they never _hold hands_ , that’s not what this is, not between them, but. 

Steve’s lips are kissing his neck, and his hand is covering Billy’s, and his body is the only thing shielding Billy from the world, and. 

Billy has never been good at keeping track of the rules of the game. 

That’s not what this is between them, but Steve’s been playing this game longer, has earned the right to change the rules, turn this into something it’s not. 

Billy’ll let him. He always does. 

Steve closes his teeth behind Billy’s ear, and mutters _will you be good for me_ , and Billy’s knees are melting, and Steve is _right there_ , holding him, waiting for an answer, knowing he’ll get one out of Billy, one way or another, and Billy needs Steve to know how _hungry_ he is, how _aching_ for him, so he presses back against Steve, feels his hardness against him, revels in the way Steve _hisses_ , scorched at the fire burning between them, and Billy growls _ain’t I always, Stevie_ , because he needs to hold _some_ ground under his feet, and Steve laughs, laughs, kisses his neck. 

Steve’s hands travel down, settle on his belt loops, dragging his jeans, lower, and Billy’s been waiting for this part of the night since _this is the last time_ , has been empty, and hollow, and sick, and Steve knows the cure, _is_ the cure, and. 

Billy feels Steve’s fingers on his mouth, pressing, pushing, breaking the barrier of his lips, and Billy puts up enough fight to matter, enough for Steve to bite the side of his neck, growl _open up_ against the skin, and Billy _gasps_ , and does, opens up for Steve, allows the intrusion, finds his mouth three fingers fuller, and he knows the drill, knows Steve is a rich boy, affords any kind of lube he wants, but lube would make this easy, would take basic components out of the equation, the sting, the stretch, the _pain_ , and Billy needs all of that, and Steve knows, and Billy’s mouth is full, of Steve’s fingers, of spit, of blood, and nothing else exists. 

His mouth is drooling around Steve's fingers, running down his chin, his abs, making a mess, mixing with the one his cock is making between his legs, aching and leaking for Steve. 

Steve takes his fingers out, and Billy's expecting it, the burn of them inside him, but. 

Steve's hand pushes at the bottom of his spine, forcing Billy to bend forward, angling his hips away from the car, and he feels Steve move behind him, feels him kneeling, feels his mouth bite a path down his back, and then. 

Steve grabs his ass, forces his cheeks apart, bites, right at the point his spine ends, moves lower, licks a stripe against Billy's hole. 

Billy - it's an animal sound, the one that's punched out of him. He's whining, howling, _begging_. 

Steve bites that spot again, soothes it with a kiss, tender in a way nothing between them is, says, ‘I've got you, sweetheart.’ 

Billy feels tears running down his face, one more way his body melts for Steve, becomes liquid, becomes _his_ , and. 

_Sweetheart_. 

Steve is gripping his ass, touch tethering on violent, on pain, on everything this isn't, and Billy knows he's leaving handprints, wants to laugh something stupid, because Neil's waiting for him at home, and Steve's hands are on his ass, and Steve's tongue is licking, teasing, breaching his entrance, making him his in every way Neil tries to beat out of him. 

He doesn't laugh. Steve starts thrusting his tongue inside him, and Billy - he doesn't laugh. 

He's spent weeks waiting, hoping, preparing himself for this moment, fucking himself on his fingers, trying to take the edge of the ache away, but nothing, _nothing_ compares to the feeling of Steve behind him, inside him, around him. 

Billy wants to melt into him. 

Steve gives a couple more licks, moves his face away, and Billy _feels_ the loss, is winded by it, and. 

Steve _knows_. Knows him. What he needs. 

He replaces his tongue with his fingers, _three_ of them, because Billy's ready, because Billy craves the burn, because Steve will always give him what he needs, eventually. 

He starts thrusting his fingers, pushing his spit inside, keeping it there, and Billy came not ten minutes ago, but he _knows_ , feels it in his bones, knows Steve needs to be inside him when he comes for the second time, knows he won't get to if Steve keeps hitting every perfect spot inside, keeps mouthing at Billy's back, like they're - all the things they're not. 

He's floating away, the world becoming fuzzy around the edges, moving closer and closer to the light, that one perfect moment of bliss, and then. 

Steve takes his fingers out, taps them against Billy's hip, brings him down to the ground, to his body, to _them_. 

He drapes his body against Billy's back, plastering himself against it, almost like he's trying to forget they're two bodies, separate, apart, almost like he needs to feel them as one, and Billy - he understands that need, viscerally. 

Steve kisses his neck, bites his lobe, says, ‘Does it feel good, sweetheart?’ 

Billy wants to scream, to punch him, to keep him close forever. He moans instead, and his moans take the form of Steve's name, like it's the only word left in the world, and maybe it is. 

‘Steve,’ he says, breathless, desperate, ‘I need - ’ 

‘I know, sweetheart,’ Steve says, ‘I always know what you need. Always here to give it to you.’ 

And it's - a lie that feels like drowning, like salt on Billy's tongue, on his hair, on an open wound, because. 

Because Steve _isn't_. Not there, not always, not in any way Billy needs him to be, not ever. 

But he's here, now, and Billy's falling apart at the seams, his body splitting open in the middle, giving everything to Steve, and it only works for him anyway, only belongs to him, _will_ only ever belong to him, and. 

Steve's hand is still burning a bruise on the side of his thigh, keeping Billy awake, keeping him alive, and he grabs it, laces their fingers together, turns his head, _begging_ , aching for it, for the breath only Steve can give, for one kiss to make the world go away. 

Steve raises his other palm, leaves a caress, feather-like, earth-shattering, on Billy's cheek, leans forward, replaces his hand with his lips, kisses Billy's cheekbone, the point where his tears gather before taking the fall down his face, kisses Billy's lashes, wet and clumped and tear-stained, moves down to Billy's mouth, leaves the softest, lightest touch Billy's ever felt, and it's - 

It's not like that, between them, not at all, and Steve pushes inside him with no warning, and Steve's _big_ , and scorching, and _perfect_ inside him, and it's still the kiss that keeps Billy raw, and open, and bleeding. 

Billy whines against his mouth, bites at it, and Steve gets the message, always does, starts moving inside him, starts grinding, slowly, makes sure Billy feels all of him, makes sure Billy's body won't ever feel complete, not without Steve inside him, and. 

He knows what Billy needs, knows he needs to feel the kind of ache that lingers, the kind nobody else can give him, nobody else ever will, and Steve buries himself to the hilt, body still locked against Billy's back, nothing between them, not air, not space, starts pounding inside him, fueling every fire inside. 

And Billy's been _good_ , he's been waiting, patient in a way he never is, because he knows what he needs, knows only Steve can give it to him, even just like that, bend against his car, the car Neil helped him buy, hands clasped together on Billy's thigh, leaving bruises the same color the one Neil gives him hold, Steve's lips on his neck, biting his pulse, Neil's gift to him, and. 

Steve wraps an arm around Billy's waist, brings them closer, impossibly so, snakes it down, down, meets his cock, makes a loose grip around it, and it shouldn't be enough, never is, not without Steve, but Steve's buried inside him, and Billy's been falling apart in so many ways, figures one more will be a drop in the ocean, moans Steve's name for everyone to hear, _I belong to him_ , falls over the edge, making a mess on Steve's fingers. 

He feels Steve move inside him, once, twice, and then he's letting out a breath, and Billy can't help it, hears his name in it, and Steve's been ruining him all night, all year, and. 

It's knowing Steve came with Billy's name on his lips that makes his eyes water all over again. 

Steve's panting behind him, against Billy's ear, lips touching skin, a mockery of a kiss, and. 

It's May, the end of it, and they're graduating in two weeks, and Billy's been avoiding every thought that has to do with the future for _months_ , because May means he's free in all the ways he craves and the one he desperately doesn't, means Billy can leave, leave Hawkins, and Neil, and - 

And there's an irony somewhere, there. 

Billy can leave, he _can_ , and. 

It's Steve that's been leaving from the start, every time. 

And that makes something fragile break in Billy's chest, scattering shards everywhere, sending them all over his body, and Billy's only felt like this once before, and it'd taken the form of blonde hair, and blue eyes, and a white dress flowing in a wind that took it away, and Billy thinks, _this is what grief feels like_. 

And he knows it's not just grief, knows it's mixed with pain, and hate, and - 

He feels Steve pulling out of him, and Billy knows how this goes, has danced this dance before, but it's different now, somehow, because May is ending, because Billy's free to leave, because he doesn't want to, because he _has_ to. 

Because Billy's in love, and nothing's ever hurt like this before. 

He turns around in Steve's arms, still caged inside them, the only way he feels his breath flowing freely, like the space between Steve's arms is the only one with oxygen in a world that's slowly killing him, and. 

Steve is so close, and looking at him with something like recognition, like fear, like - 

And Billy's in love, and school will be over soon, and maybe this last time will really be the last, maybe this is the only thing he gets to keep, the memory of breathing in Steve's arms, the closest to tenderness they've ever allowed between them, and. 

‘I’m so fuckin’ in love with you,’ he says, and he dives in, bites Steve's lip, allows himself to lick into Steve's mouth, and it tastes like goodbye. 

He knows everything's broken even before he pulls back. 

Steve's eyes are scanning his face, and his mouth is still open, still shining from Billy's spit, still red from Billy's teeth, and it's the most beautiful thing Billy's ever seen, and he knows he'll never have this, not ever again. 

Steve takes a few steps back, raises invisible walls between them, insurmountable, drags his eyes away from Billy, and nothing Neil's ever done to him has ever broken Billy like this. 

‘Is that what you think this is?’ Steve chokes out, like it pains him to. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’ 

And Billy - he wants to laugh, because - 

Because - 

Because _wrong_ is the only constant in his life, _wrong_ and pain, raised on them, made out of their clay, and there are many things _wrong_ with Billy, _in_ him, but. 

What he feels for Steve isn't one of them. He knows that much. 

He doesn't laugh. He feels - so very tired, all of a sudden. Feels like all the fight in him has left, bled out of his lips the moment they met Steve's. 

He turns around, and he's never been resigned, not one day of his life, every day a fight, but. 

He thinks maybe it feels like this. 

Maybe losing the game takes the form of Steve Harrington, in the middle of a field Billy has no business being so familiar with, shirt undone, Billy's blood under his fingernails, Billy's heart in pieces in front of him. 

— 

He doesn't go home that night. 

He figures he's already due a few bruises, figures a few more won't make any difference. 

He can't meet Neil's fists, not tonight, not as shattered as he feels. Can't take being any more broken, not after allowing Steve to break him in every way he aches for. 

He drives instead, circles around Hawkins, testing his limits, tasting something acidic in his mouth, something that feels like betrayal, like something's being ripped apart from him, and his lungs hurt with the effort to breathe. 

He remembers how easy it was when Steve was holding him, and he drives, and tries to imagine a life far away from Hawkins, from Neil, from - 

He stops the car, and opens the door, and spends the rest of the night relearning how to breathe. 

When the sun comes up, his lungs burn, and his eyes hurt, and Billy still doesn’t remember how to. 

— 

Turns out, if you miss the daily appointment with your father’s fists, you repay it back with interest. 

Billy learns this with a punch to the stomach, and a boot to the cheek, and a belt to his back, that keeps coming, and coming, and coming, until Billy can feel his skin splitting open, can feel the blood running down his spine, until he stops feeling pain, reaches that point where everything kind of - melts together, becomes a snapshot Billy holds in his hands, something he looks at outside of himself, until his pain is just words in his mouth, it's just _belt_ , and _blood_ , and _my fault_. 

When Neil's satisfied, decides Billy's learned the lesson of the day, Billy's left on the floor of his room, door closed, because Susan will be home soon, and blood and tears and broken skin don't make for a warm welcome, open wounds bleeding into the wooden planks of the floor below him, and. 

He still thinks _this is the last time_ hurts more. 

— 

He misses almost a whole week of school, spent in bed, nursing his wounds, some physical, most not. 

He comes back in time for this year's last game of basketball, a friendly match between Hawkins high and some posh school from Indiana, and Billy's in no fit state to play, can still feel the force Neil's belt met his back with, kept meeting it, but. 

It's probably the last chance he'll ever get to be close to Steve, to have an excuse to be, and Billy's learned that dragging out the tearing of the bandaid will always make for more pain, and he still takes the chance the same way he takes everything else in life, clawing and biting and bleeding. 

And it goes well, almost, and Steve's sweaty and hot and _close_ , for one last time, and then. 

Billy has the ball, starts making his way through the court, angles to take the shot, and. 

Some asshole from Indiana comes crashing into him, sends him lying on his back on the ground, and Billy near - blacks out from the pain. 

He allows himself three breaths, one, two, three, forces himself to stand up, to walk, to make a run for the locker rooms, tells himself he's allowed to collapse in there, alone, away from the coach, the crowd, _Steve_. 

He can feel some wounds splitting open all over again, feel the blood seeping through the shirt he _has_ to wear, feel the sting of tears and the tightening of his jaw to hold them back. 

He straddles a bench, takes his shirt off, material sticking to the open skin, and it hurts, and Billy thinks, _this is the last time I bleed for him_. 

He stays like this, hands gripping the wooden edges, heaving breaths shaking his body, eyes closed to stop the wetness from spilling, and. 

He knows it's coming, can hear the footsteps, can recognize Steve's among hundreds, and he should turn around, cover himself up, hide, and. 

Billy’s worn out, stretched too thin. Finds maybe he's past the point of caring, anymore. Thinks maybe he's already lost everything that's ever mattered. 

So he stays like this, slumped over the bench, eyes screwed tight, wounds bleeding, and. 

‘Billy, fuck,’ Steve mutters, and he's so much closer than Billy figured, so much closer than Billy thought he'd want to be. 

Steve reaches out a hand, settles it carefully on Billy's shoulder, right at the end of a wound, a nasty one, barely touching, maybe testing, waiting for a howl of pain, of rage. 

Billy - can't find it in himself to extend that courtesy. 

Can't keep up with a game that's long lost, not when they're graduating on Friday, not when Billy's got a duffel bag full of everything he owns in his truck, ready to fly out of Hawkins come Saturday morning, not after _what the fuck is wrong with you_. 

He feels himself shivering, shattering at the slightest of Steve's touches, hates himself for it. 

Steve brushes his fingers against his nape, plays with the loose strands there, touch still soft, feathery, careful in a way they never are, not with the world, not with each other, says, ‘Wait a moment.’ 

Billy can hear him shuffling behind him, opening his locker, taking something metallic out of it, and then Steve sits down on the bench, facing his back, opens up a box, a first aid kit, and. 

Billy's spent months getting patched up by Steve's hands, knows everything the kit under his bathroom sink contains by heart, knows Steve never uses it on himself, knows Steve doesn't need to keep one in his locker, at school, because Steve's not like Billy, never gets into fights, except the one Billy forced out of him a lifetime ago, and. 

Billy thinks it's fitting. 

The only thing left to remind Steve of him when he's gone will be a box full of gauze, and cotton, and blood. 

This is his legacy. This is his gift. 

Billy turns his head enough to catch Steve pouring antiseptic onto a piece of cotton, to catch Steve’s look when he stares at his wounds, the way his jaw clenches, to catch Steve’s eyes, lock them on his own, and. 

‘Did he - ’ 

‘Came back home late that night,’ Billy says, cuts Steve off, doesn’t need Neil’s name on Steve’s lips, refuses to give his father that victory. ‘Neil - he said I needed to be taught a lesson. Learn to be _responsible_.’ 

He doesn’t look at Steve, turns back around instead, because Steve has that look in his eyes, the one that turns _this is the last time_ , and _this has to end_ , and _what the fuck is wrong with you_ into ash that melts on Billy’s tongue, the one that makes hope spark in Billy’s chest, and Billy’s gonna be gone by the end of the week, and. 

He doesn’t need Steve looking at him like that. Can’t take it, not now, not anymore. 

Steve brings the cotton to his wounds, starts dabbing at them, and Billy can’t help it, hisses out his pain, can’t help feeling like a wounded animal, hopeless, helpless, lost. 

‘I’m sorry,’ Steve mutters behind him, never stops applying pressure on his skin, raises his other hand, starts tracing patterns against Billy’s side, anywhere the skin is clear, colorless. 

Billy stays silent, focuses on the way Steve’s fingers linger on his skin, allows himself to memorize the feel of them against his side, the tenderness of it, locks it in his mind, knows he’ll never get to have this again. 

Steve’s almost done tending to his wounds, and Billy wants to scream, tell him those aren’t the ones that hurt the most, open up his chest and show Steve every point that bleeds for _him_ , that _needs_ him, can only be healed by his touch, his look, his kiss, and. 

Steve throws the cotton away, his hand never leaving Billy’s ribs, holding him together, and then Billy feels lips against his shoulder, feels Steve leaving the softest, gentlest kiss right where the bone ends, and. 

His lungs burn, and his eyes blur, and he dashes to his feet like he’s been scorched by hellfire, puts as much distance between them as he can, grabs his shirt, keeps his back to Steve while he puts it on. 

‘I’ve got to get Max home,’ he says, and it’s not what he means, not at all, but _you can’t keep doing this to me_ , and _I need to let you go_ , and _I can only breathe when you kiss me_ , they all sound - like everything that doesn’t exist, not between them, like everything they don’t have, everything Billy can never have, _unloved_ , _incapable of being loved_ , a loop in his brain, and. 

The last thing he hears before the locker room door shuts behind him is his name pouring out of Steve’s lips. 

— 

Max knows something’s off, of course she does. 

She’s - probably the smartest person Billy knows, definitely the most perceptive, maybe the only person in the world Billy nurses remorse for. 

He doesn’t regret many things in his life, can’t really afford to, not when every minute, every hit, could be the last, but. 

He regrets not trying to build a relationship with Max, a real one. 

She’s slumped in the passenger seat, backpack trapped inside her arms, a wildfire in motion, and Billy feels a wave of sadness wash over him, knows he won’t be able to see her, not for a while, not after he’s gone. 

Max opens her mouth. Closes it. Chews on her lip. Knows Billy will wait her out, knows it’s a luxury she’d never had enjoyed a few months back. ‘You’re going, aren’t you?’ she asks finally. 

Billy tightens his grip on the wheel. Doesn’t do goodbyes. His eyes aren’t the only thing he’s inherited from his ma. 

Max waits, sees she’s not getting the confirmation she was angling for, says, voice laced with bite, with hurt, ‘You’re going, and you wouldn’t even tell me.’ 

‘Max - ’ he starts, not really knowing where to go from there. ‘I - I can’t stay, you know that.’ 

‘Of course I do, you asshole, of course I know,’ she says, sounding years wiser than her thirteen Augusts would betray. ‘I just. I’ll miss you.’ 

She isn’t looking at him, and Billy’s never been more grateful to her in his life, because his throat stops working, blocked by a guilt he’s felt once before, and it tasted like Steve’s blood, because he knows she’s not in danger, never has been, and it still feels like leaving her behind. 

‘He won’t hurt you,’ he says, hating himself, his father, the world, for forcing him to show Max the ugliness it hides, for forcing Max to grow up so fast. ‘It’s not about - It’s only ever about me.’ 

‘I know,’ she says, and it sounds like an apology, like a goodbye. ‘I know he won’t, that’s not why I’m - I’ll just miss you, asshole, I really will.’ 

‘Yeah,’ he says, and then, ‘I’ll miss you too.’ 

They’re almost at the house, and he wants to say something else, make a promise, tell her they’ll see each other soon, tell her he’ll call, but. 

Billy’s broken, and his life is a series of _wrong_ , and maybe leaving Max is the only way of saving her of him. 

He parks the car, opens the door, gets out without a word. 

— 

Billy graduates from high school wearing a black gown, and a black hat, and a black bruise under his left eye, one last gift from the person who gave him life, one last push to send him flying far away from Hawkins. 

He keeps stealing glances at Steve, always finds him looking back, like maybe his eyes never stray, like maybe he doesn’t care about hiding it, not the way Billy does, and. 

Steve wears that frown on his face, and Billy knows that means he’s thinking of all the ways Neil could’ve given him that bruise, thinking of all the times Billy showed up at his mansion with a bruise on his eye, maybe bruises on his ribs to match, thinking of all the times they gave colors like that to each other, kisses exchanged for fists, hate mixed with - 

And Billy’s got his things packed in the back of the Camaro, the one Steve fucked him against, breathed life into his body, and Billy’ll be gone this time tomorrow, leaving this town, and his father, and _Steve_ behind, and. 

He tears his eyes away. 

— 

When Billy gets home, Steve’s waiting for him there, and that. 

That’s all kinds of wrong. 

Steve is standing outside his yard, leaning against his car, arms crossed, whole body screaming that he’s itching for a fight, and. 

Neil’s right _there_ , in the house, and Billy needs to get Steve away from there, needs him to _leave_. 

He rips his door open, runs to Steve, goes as close as he can get away with, knows he’s already doomed. 

‘You can’t be here,’ he hisses, frantic, desperate, looking behind him, checking, because Neil can’t hurt Steve, isn’t allowed to. 

Steve - he knows about Neil, has been eyeing the bruise under Billy’s eye for hours, has been patching Billy’s body up for months, and. 

He looks at Billy, and it’s the same look Billy’s been burning under since the beginning, takes a step closer, and it’s all he needs, it’s all Billy allowed between them, raises his hand, cups Billy’s cheek, right there, in the middle of an unkempt yard on Cherry Lane, in front of a house that’s never been able to protect Billy from monsters, that’s been the one to harbor one inside in the first place. 

Billy flinches like he’s just taken a punch, the way he used to flinch before he learned not to, before he learned it makes everything worse, moves away from Steve at breakneck speed, knows his fate is sealed the moment he hears the front door opening behind him. 

He can hear footsteps, and they’re the only kind besides Steve’s he can recognise anywhere, a survival skill honed to perfection, and he thinks, _It won’t save me now_. 

Steve looks behind Billy, seeing everything Billy’s been dreading ever since he turned nine, takes the steps he needs to stand before Billy again, cups his face, traces the bruise under his eye, says, ‘Get in the car.’ 

Billy’s stuck to the spot he’ll probably die on, if Neil’s boots are any indication, looking at Steve wildly, doesn’t get it. ‘Steve - you need to _go_. Just. Please, just - go.’ 

Steve shakes his head, says, ‘You got a bag ready?’ 

‘Yeah, the - the back of the car,’ Billy says, lost, and then, ‘Stevie, you _have_ to go, he’ll - ’ 

‘Gimme the keys.’ Steve’s voice is steady in a way Billy’s never been, not around Neil, it’s firm, almost commading, but his eyes are soft when they turn to Billy, in a way they weren’t a moment ago, staring at - 

Billy - gives him the keys. He doesn’t - know what else to do, not with Steve in front of him, not with Neil’s abyss waiting to drag him back down so close behind. 

‘Good,’ Steve says, takes the keys, drags his nails across Billy’s hand in the process. ‘Now get in the car.’ 

Billy goes to take a step forward the same moment Neil’s voice rings behind him. 

‘What is going on here? Billy, what the hell do you think you’re doing?’ 

And Billy starts turning around, starts moving towards the voice, has spent years worth of learning ways to make everything hurt less, and going willingly is a sure one, and. 

He feels Steve’s hand on his jaw, keeping Billy there, making sure everything Billy sees is Steve, and he can hear Neil seething behind him, can hear Max getting out of the house, trying to talk Neil back into it, and then Steve leans in, and in, and presses his lips against Billy’s, right outside of the house Billy’s been bleeding in for months, right in front of the man that’s been causing it. 

It lasts one second, and Steve pulls back, and, ‘Billy, sweetheart, I need you to get in the car now,’ is spoken against Billy’s lips, and - 

Billy does. He moves in a daze, opens the passenger door to Steve’s car, gets in, and then everything happens all at once. 

Billy watches as the distance between Steve and Neil gets smaller and smaller, watches as Steve raises his hand, as Steve’s fist connects with Neil’s face, sends him reeling back, falling to the ground, nose spilling blood everywhere, and. 

There have been a lot of blood sacrifices in the little house on Cherry Lane, a lot of nights full of blood, and fists, and broken noses, always Billy’s, never Neil’s, and. 

Billy tastes the punch in his throat, and it feels like salvation. 

He sees Max running towards him, and there are arms around him, and red hair covering his face, and a voice in his ear that says _take care_ , before she flies back to the house, and Billy will miss her, so, so much. 

Steve opens the truck with one good hand, throws Billy’s bag inside, falls heavily on the driver’s seat. He looks at Billy, something feral, and wild, and radiant in his eyes, and Billy wants to laugh, wants to kiss him, wants to ask what the hell just happened, and. 

Steve turns his gaze away, ahead, flies out of Cherry Lane, speeds at every road that’ll take them away, reaches the _leaving Hawkins, come again soon_ sign, reaches across the console, eyes glued to the road ahead, grips Billy’s hand in his own, and. 

It’s the hand Steve used to break down years of nightmares, and it’s covered in the blood of a monster, and it’s tight around his own, painful, like Steve never intends to let go, and he’s still not looking at Billy, keeps driving, and driving, and Billy has no idea what any of that means, but. 

His whole life has been full of _wrong_ , full of pain, and fists, and blood, but Billy’s in a car with a boy, and he’s in love, and Hawkins is three towns behind them, Steve’s hand in his, wind blowing through the window, and. 

Nothing’s ever felt more _right_. 

— 

They drive for hours like this, Billy still in a daze, Steve vibrating with energy, with rage, with a fire Billy never wants to let die down, hands still clasped tight over the driving stick, and it must be uncomfortable, it must be, because Steve’s been driving for hours, one hand on the wheel, one hand in Billy’s, letting Billy stroke his knuckles, the point where skin met bone, where it opened up to match the force of the hit, and Steve hasn’t said a word, hasn’t looked at Billy for hours, and. 

Billy wants to ask what they're doing, where they're going, if they have a plan, mostly wants to know if Steve's death grip on his hand means everything Billy needs it to, if _they_ exists in Steve's mind too, if Steve's in - 

But Steve isn't looking at him, and Billy has years worth of exhaustion on his shoulders, and breathing is always easier around Steve, letting go, allowing himself to feel safe, and Billy closes his eyes, and falls asleep to the feeling of Steve's hand keeping him grounded. 

— 

He wakes up to Steve brushing his hair, softly, to Steve's eyes looking down to him, to Steve's voice saying, ‘C’mon, sweetheart,’ and. 

It's the first thing Steve's said to him since _get in the car_ , and Steve calls Billy _sweetheart_ like he means it, and they're stopped at a motel, even though Steve seems miles away from tired, still running on the high of punching Neil, of getting away, even though _Billy's_ the one who's spent the last couple of hours dozing off, and that - 

It _means_ something, Billy knows, but. 

Steve's taking their bags out of the truck, and that means his hand isn't holding Billy's, and it's the first time in hours, and Billy feels the phantom touch of Steve's fingers, feels the ache in his bones from Steve's grip, feels the loss like a missing limb. 

And then - Steve starts walking towards the room, turns around, catches Billy's eyes tracing his every move, sends a smile at his direction, small and soft and full of - 

And Billy's _helpless_ , trailing after him like his bones will shatter if he stays away for too long, and. 

Maybe they will. 

— 

There’s a split second after Billy closes the door behind them, shielding them from the world, where they drop their bags, and just - stand there, Steve in the middle of the room, Billy leaning against the door, soaking up all the support he can get, because he hasn’t been alone in the same room with Steve since Steve had shoved him into that supply closet, back in Hawkins, had whispered _tonight_ against Billy’s lips, had set off the explosion that lead them here, now, in a sketchy motel room five hours from Hawkins, from Neil, from blood, and. 

And then Steve is _right there_ , right in front of him, caging Billy against the door, pressing his lips to the bruise under Billy’s eye, his cheeks, his lips, breathes life into him, and everything’s electric, and Billy _needs_. 

He starts walking them towards the bed, pushing Steve’s arms up to get rid of his shirt, to get to skin, never allows his lips to stray far from Steve’s, and they fall on the mattress, tangled together, two bodies trying to become one, and. 

Steve - stops. 

He stops, sits up, Billy in his lap, straddling him, and just - looks. 

He searches Billy’s face, eyes scanning over marks, and scars, and colors that have no business being there, and Billy waits, silent, barely taking a breath, because Steve’s lips aren’t on him, and he can’t remember how to. 

Steve cups his face in his hands, and his touch is laden with a newfound softness, except it’s _not_ , not new between them, and Billy’s hit with the familiarity of it, realizes Steve’s been touching him like this since the beginning, even through the fists, and the words, and the pain, and. 

Billy thinks maybe Steve was giving him all that because he thought that’s what Billy was asking for, and he still couldn’t keep rays of softness to slip through the cracks. 

He thinks, maybe, if he had asked Steve for softness from the start, it would’ve been given to him. 

His eyes sting with unbidden tears, and he needs to hide them, a lesson punched into him through years of pain, so he dives in, sinks his teeth on Steve’s neck, starts biting down, frantic, needs to turn this into what it’s always been, because pain is home, and Billy’s never had softness, doesn’t know what to do with it, and. 

Steve locks his hands on Billy’s hair, forces his head back, forces Billy’s eyes to stay on his when he cups his face, when he covers all the black with his fingers, when he kisses Billy’s frown. 

‘Not like this,’ he says, tilting Billy’s world on its axis, ‘not anymore.’ 

And Billy - doesn’t know what that means, or maybe he does, but not for _him_ , doesn’t know any other way, has never had _this_ , a boy in his arms, a heart in his chest that beats for someone else, the option of something good, and loving, and soft, laid out in front of him, so he does the only thing he knows how to, touches his lips to Steve’s, breathes Steve’s name against them, shows Steve he’s learning, to accept this, to inhale, to exhale. 

Steve’s mouth curves against his, huffs a laugh in acknowledgement, and Billy knows Steve gets it, gets everything Billy’s trying to say, in every way he can, knows Billy’s never been taught the right words to. 

Steve starts rocking under him, drawing a whine out of Billy’s lips, reminding him how much he needs Steve to be his, how much he needs to be Steve’s, and Billy almost _howls_ at the feel of Steve’s cock against his own, and they’ve both waited so long, and Steve said _not like this_ , and. 

Steve unbuttons Billy’s shirt, throws it away, and Billy revels at the desperation of Steve’s movements because _not like this_ means a lot of things, but it doesn’t mean _slow_. 

He raises his hips just enough to drag his pants down, just enough to grant Steve the access he needs, just enough that he only misses Steve’s skin for a second, before he’s sitting on Steve’s legs again, bracketing him with his own, before he opens Steve’s zipper, takes out his cock, swallows dryly at the look of it, all flushed and purple and _just for him_. 

Steve’s sitting upright, arms locked around Billy’s waist, chests flushed against one another, and when Billy takes them both in his hand, starts moving his palm up and down and so, so slow, Steve surges forward, swallows both their moans, licks every trace of sadness in Billy’s mouth, makes a home in it. 

They break apart for air, heads hanging forward, foreheads touching, both of them staring in awe as Billy’s hand gets drenched in their pre, and. 

It’s good, it’s _so good_ , and it’s not what Billy needs. 

‘Stevie,’ he whispers against Steve’s lips, ‘I need you in me, please, I _need_ you.’ 

And Steve nods, gaze still fixed on the way they move against each other, seems incapable of doing anything other than nodding, leaving small, short breaths, except. 

‘Grab the lube from my pocket, sweetheart, we need to open you up first.’ 

And it’s only been a few days since that night in the field, since Steve fucked Billy against the car they left behind, and lube wasn’t in the plan that night, but Steve said _not anymore_ , and that means lube, and opening Billy up, and it doesn’t mean pain. 

So Billy gets the lube, and Steve makes sure his fingers are coated in it before he starts teasing at Billy’s entrance, and Billy’s already kind of loose, and Steve said _not anymore_ , but Billy likes a bit of edge, and Steve knows, and he pushes two of his fingers inside, soothes the sting with a kiss, sweet as anything, starts scissoring them inside, slowly, and Billy takes his hand away from his cock, because he needs this to last, and it doesn’t seem like it will. 

Steve keeps spreading him open, adding a third, a fourth finger, and his tongue never stops exploring Billy’s mouth, relearning it, in a way Billy never allowed him to, before, licking and teasing and replacing Billy’s taste with Steve’s, making Billy his in every way, and. 

‘Stevie,’ Billy startles at how breathless, how wrecked, how gone he sounds, ‘please, I’m good, I _need_ you, _please_.’ 

And Steve - he drags a thumb across Billy’s cheek, and smiles, and kisses him, and raises Billy’s hips, takes his cock in his hand, lowers Billy down on it, so, so slowly, and Billy’s gasping by the time his hips meet Steve’s legs, by the time he feels Steve inside him, filling all the empty spaces, and then. 

Steve starts thrusting, and he can’t, not really, not with Billy’s body pinning him to the bed, but every small movement sends sparks all the way to Billy’s toes, and Steve’s looking at him like he’s worth it, like he’s worth all of it, the softness, the blood on Steve’s knuckles, the look on Steve’s face, and Billy thinks maybe Steve was trying to give all this to him from the start, thinks maybe Billy was the one who refused, kept refusing, kept thinking Steve would never, he’d never want to give himself to Billy, not like that, not when he could have anything, _anyone_ else, and. 

Steve kisses him again, keeps his lips close, snakes one hand between them, wraps it around Billy, and Billy’s so, so close, has been ever since Steve’s fist found Neil’s face, and Steve must know that, must know Billy’s been falling apart for him, because he bites his lip, and whispers, _come for me, sweetheart_ , and. 

Billy does. 

He closes his eyes, and lets himself fall over the edge, and paints their bodies white, and comes, and keeps coming, because he feels Steve following him one second, one thrust, later, and they stay like that, breathless, sweaty, tangled up in each other, Billy’s legs wrapped around Steve’s torso, Steve’s arms wrapped around Billy’s waist, mouths panting against each other, and Billy’s so in love, and it hurts, but. 

It’s different than before. It’s - softer, kinder, laced with hope, and then. 

Steve drags a thumb across Billy’s eyebrow, and rolls under Billy, says, ‘We made a mess, huh?’ 

And he walks to the bathroom, comes back with a towel, starts wiping Billy’s come from his stomach, and Billy thinks of all the times Steve cleaned himself off Billy’s blood, of all the times Steve let him go, sent him back to fists and blood, and suddenly Steve’s so far away, and Billy can’t breathe. 

He lies on the bed, turns on his side, back turned to Steve, because his eyes are full of tears, and his lungs burn, and. 

‘Billy?’ 

He feels the mattress dip next to him, knows the touch is coming before it does, and then there’s a hand on his jaw, and it’s painfully reminiscent of the way Steve touched him a few hours ago, in front of a house so many miles away, and Billy’s forced to turn around, to face Steve, to take in the worry in his face, and. 

Billy said _so fucking in love with you_ , and Steve said _is that what you think this is_ , and. 

Steve looks at him, face softening like he knows everything Billy’s thinking, worrying, forgetting how to breathe about, and he leans in, leaves a kiss on Billy’s lips, lies down next to him, tangles their hands together on top of the blankets, and. 

‘This is what it feels like,’ Steve says. 

And Billy thinks, _I never thought I’d have this_ , and looks at their hands, at Steve’s knuckles, bruised and bloodied, at their bags on the floor, looks at Steve, finds him looking right back, smiling something soft at him, and Billy thinks, _I can’t believe I do_. 

— 

Billy wakes up in Steve’s arms, and they’ve been doing this for months, except it’s never been like this, and Billy’s never woken up close to the boy who’s been stealing his breath since that morning in October, when Billy showed up in Hawkins expecting to lose his mind and lost his heart instead, and. 

Steve’s already looking at him, and Billy burrows in his chest, allows himself to, and then he remembers where they are, remembers he doesn’t know where they’re supposed to be, and. 

‘Stevie?’ he asks, and revels in the roughness in his voice, knows it’s Steve’s gift to him. 

Steve never takes his eyes off him, smiles, hums. 

‘Where are we - going? I mean - _are_ we going somewhere?’ 

And Steve looks - guilty almost. ‘I - don’t know, actually? The plan was - get you, get out. Didn’t really think that far ahead.’ 

And Billy - can’t help it, he laughs, hides it against Steve’s chest, bites his side, just a little, because he’s so in love with that boy, because he never thought getting out of Hawkins would mean _with Steve_ , because he’s willing to drive down endless roads if it means having Steve’s hand in his. 

And Steve still looks like he maybe he owes Billy an apology, like maybe he should’ve given him something more solid than just _away with me_ , says, ‘We’ll figure it out, yeah?’ 

And Billy looks at him, crawls on top of him, covers Steve’s body with his, two bodies into one, the way they’ve been aching for since the beginning, kisses him, whispers, ‘Yeah, Stevie, we will. We’ll figure it out.’ 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [tumblr](https://aspartaeme.tumblr.com/)
> 
> title comes from angie mcmahon's keeping time


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